


'compliance'

by sunflower_8



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Mental Instability, Multi, NOTHING IS SUPPOSED TO BE ROMANTICIZED., Past Rape/Non-con, Pedophilia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Sexual Abuse, Trauma, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, all in the past., is this fic about recovery? no. will komaeda recover later? yes., let me know if i have something i forgot to tag., small vent fic about lacking memories but having theories of trauma, this is triggering. mind the tags., vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:48:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26806123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower_8/pseuds/sunflower_8
Summary: "and he must have wanted it, if he can hardly remember."(or, komaeda has nightmares about trauma he can't quite piece together.)
Relationships: Enoshima Junko/Komaeda Nagito (past implied), Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito, Kirigiri Jin/Komaeda Nagito (past implied)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 130





	'compliance'

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warning.
> 
> mind the tags. this is a vent fic, and not cathartic. at no point are relationships-- komaeda/hinata being the exception-- supposed to be romanticized. if you need me to tag or alter something, let me know. 
> 
> komaeda will heal. i am not prepared to write that. it may be irresponsible. i apologize if it is.
> 
> once again, mind the tags. please. please, i don't want to trigger anyone.
> 
> for those who need to hear it. i believe you.

komaeda can still feel her, sometimes.

it comes in the quiet moments. a conversation, a kissing session, a walk alone in the evening-side of jabberwock (when it’s evening, the entire island is evening, but that side has always been more macabre. komaeda keeps it company). it’s not much of a sensation, not much of a thought. all it has ever been is a whisper, enough for him to doubt everything and yet keep pushing through with a smile, cutting through barbed wire fences that punctuate his mind.

(he doubts. at the end of it all, he isn’t a worshipper, isn’t a sinner, isn’t a person,  ~~ but is quite a toy, ~~ he’s a doubter.)

in dreams, it’s different. phantom memories he can’t quite recall presses against him (he can feel her side pressed against his, so nauseating that it’s almost real, that he wishes it was real. maybe it would make more sense, if it was). he can still taste her honey-coated lips against hers, the time she whispered  _ hey, hun,  _ in a way that made him think he was the only person in the world. the way that she once promised he was, settling into his lap on his birthday-- please get off please get off-- and stroking him through  _ happy birthday to the most beautiful boy in the world.  _ he still knows how cold her hands can be, how scalding her fingertips are, how she always used to say-

_ you’re so fun, servant! you bruise so easily and are skinny as hell, but you’re a good fuck, aren’t you? _

-and he would just nod.

(kamukura had called it compliance, once. that was the first time komaeda ever got angry at him.

he was right. maybe if he could stop having fucked-up dreams, stop chasing after despair and a million scattered memories he can’t remember, maybe he could put up a bigger fight. maybe, if he scavenges through the debris like he always did, kamukura and crows watching, he could find the space where he asked for it.)

in dreams, it suffocates him. thoughts of her, always hazier once they reach the belt buckle, the sound of him screaming when she tore him apart and made him hers, as if that was ever necessary, as if he wouldn’t crawl back to her at the first hint of a beckon. he hates himself in these dreams, knows that he has no power over her,

these are the nightmares.

the other dreams are something else. 

before her, before despair, he was marked by someone else. mistakes in judgement and lapses in memory led him to hidden rooms in hope’s peak, prolonged visits with the headmaster, swaying steps-

he cannot  _ remember,  _ really, if he was ever touched. but preying eyes-- maybe just past him, but if he tries, he can convince himself it was  _ peering at him--  _ haunt him. at night, he hears groans, feels a rush of control as his world shifts up down, up down,

and he must have wanted it, if he can hardly remember.

tonight, tonight, tonight it is many. bruises left on his neck, his inner thighs, hands tracing his body and up a skirt (why is he wearing a skirt? shouldn’t he have learned, what the world does to porcelain pitiers in skirts?). apathetic eyes, despairing ones, millions that carry nothing at all look at him, through the cloth, like they enjoy the spectacle of someone so bitterly debauched. above the sound of their whimpers, moans,  _ screams  _ (he knows they are all his), he has to wonder if it’s  _ real is it real why am i thinking this why can’t i stop WHY CAN’T I STOP _

(he used to go to libraries, used to read books about hypersexuality, convinced himself that it didn’t qualify, that if he couldn’t  _ remember  _ then it couldn’t have  _ happened.  _ maybe he’s exaggerating, maybe reality is just a dream and he is drifting along, compliance when people use him, and if he was just  _ used more  _ maybe he’d have something to blame aside from himself.

he remembers being a kid and walking into alleyways to test his luck. he remembers being a teenager who made scandalous plans only for no one to arrive if he did did he was that just a dr. he remembers being an adult, lost in despair, just wondering if he opens his legs some more-

because he needs it. knows he is nothing aside from it. wonders where this information comes.)

in his dream, he thinks he wears lipstick, thinks he can feel being praised and examined in front of thousands, eyes flitting across him, and it’s a vivisection he wishes he could stop romanticizing, wishes he could remember, because it’s hardly a matter to forget. in the dream, he tells someone, tripping over his words, about how his parents got him a dollhouse and some neighborhood rich kids came over, and all komaeda wanted to do was to kill them, burn the house down.

he doesn’t-- in the dream, there are still eyes.

soon, he’s clawing at his skin, screaming  **_WHY CAN’T I REMEMBER WHY CAN’T I STOP,_ ** and he may be  _ actually _ screaming, can’t feel his body, and it’s killing him, how everyone around him knows  _ exactly  _ what the world did to them, says  _ it’ll come with time, komaeda  _ but he’s twenty three years old and still can’t remember and he has to, he has to, he  _ doesn’t want to comply he swears don’t make him don’t make him  _ **_PLEASE SOMEONE HELP USE ME HELP USE ME LET ME GO_ ** -

when he wakes up, there’s a cool palm on his arm, worried hazel eyes looking at him, and a suffocating feeling of honey overcoming him. it’s all too much, the way he mouths  _ are you okay?  _ and the way she mouths his hair with a wet tongue and praise, and he feels sick sick sick sick-

-then nothing. vacancy, again. he doesn’t want to fill it.

“i’m okay, hinata-kun.” he shifts to look at the ceiling. thousands of eyes on him, he doesn’t want to undress, why can’t he feel anything, he must be lying, he must be. it would be typical of him, to lie. the world won’t believe him without truth bullets, or blackened memories, or hastily compiled comic books with explanations. yes, the world won’t believe him, so neither can he.

“it really was just a dream.”

**Author's Note:**

> might delete this / anon this / orphan this later.
> 
> i’ve been having dreams.


End file.
